


Part One: Scarlet

by BeeZie



Series: The Adventures of John Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BDSM, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fellatio, Kink Negotiation, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Praise Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-01-11 02:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18420525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeZie/pseuds/BeeZie
Summary: Former army doctor John Watson moves in with total stranger Sherlock Holmes in an arrangement designed to last six months.  How will the introduction of a serial killer and a professional sex worker affect their lives?Okay, we all know this is a rewrite of Conan Doyle's Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.   This particular rendition has John Watson narrating in a much more direct way, and describes the development of a sexual relationship between Holmes, Watson, and Irene Adler.  For further details, please read on.  :-)Note:  I am writing this as a Camp NaNoWriMo challenge, so I'll be periodically editing as I go.  If this annoys you, maybe come back and read it in August?





	1. Scarlet Ropes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CN: dead body described in minimal detail, sexytimes described in slightly more detail

St Bart's Hospital

 

Stamford walked me from the station. He was mum on the subject of my new roommate - just told me to wait and see for myself. He did talk about everything else under the sun, though. By the time we arrived at the hospital I was happy enough for the reprieve. Nice fellow, Stamford, but my lord could he talk.

I followed him inside, then down stairs and through corridors until I was nearly lost. The room at the end of the last hall proclaimed itself to be the morgue, or so said the plaque on the door. This concerned me a bit given the nature of the village. I lost track of that thought however when Stamford opened the door. Just on the other side of said door stood a fellow resembled a beanpole. He turned, and after half a glance, asked,

"Are you quite sure, Stamford?" He smirked lightly, "A military man?"

"How on earth do you know that?" I interrupted, mildly alarmed but mostly intrigued.

"We're here on business, as I'm sure you know." Stamford replied to both of us. "Sherlock Holmes, meet Dr. John Watson, your new roommate."

"Yes, I had gathered. A pleasure, I'm sure." He shook my hand, a firm shake, stronger than I had given him credit for. I was delighted. A strong handshake is a good indicator of a strong personality, I find. "Yes, splendid. I trust the smell of strong tobacco does not offend you?"

"It doesn't, but what does that have to do with…" The expression on my face must have sufficiently betrayed my confusion, because he cut me off without delay.

"I smoke, you see."

"Apparently, we're supposed to." I shrugged, "I just won't inhale."

"A doctor of medicine, then. Yes. As I suspected. An army doctor will do quite nicely." He was tall, this gentleman, with dark hair and a hooked nose. Striking more than handsome, I would say. "I am an amateur chemist, myself, and often conduct experiments. Would that bother you, do you think?"

"Not at all."

"Let us see- what other of my faults might trouble you? Oh yes. I sometimes keep to myself for days on end, you mustn't think that I am sulking or upset with you, I simply take some time occasionally to process things."

"On the spectrum?" I asked, looking at him sideways.

"Sociopath, actually. Problem?" I had my doubts about that, as I could see he cared quite a bit about my opinion on this, despite his very deliberately flippant tone.

"It's all fine."

"I also play the violin at all hours."

"Enchanting." I replied.

"That's not what people usually say."

"And what do they usually say?"

"Infuriating."

A laugh burst out of me and I could see his expression turn sheepish, then certain.

"Well, let's go get you settled in, then."

"Just like that?" I asked, "You don't want to know my faults?"

"Let me tell you, shall I? You don't drink, you don't smoke. You are recently from war, walk with a limp, and have some form of shoulder injury. Probably your sleep is troubled, and you are financially in trouble. I think that is enough to be getting on with, don't you?"

"But how did you know all that? It's amazing."

"You told me yourself that you don't smoke. You have none of the usual signs of the abuse of drink. Military bearing is easy to observe- you surveyed the entire room before returning your attention to me, and even now you stand 'at parade rest'. The limp I could hear when you walked in, and you hold your left shoulder more tightly than the right, which I can clearly see by comparing their heights. Troubled sleep is implied by recent service, though I admit it is at best speculation. Financial troubles would be the most likely reason to bring someone of your background to a place like this, especially given the fact that a surgeon might have a hard time securing usual employment with a tremor such as yours, despite how mild it is."

"Wonderful."

"Did I miss anything?"

"My sleep is solid, actually."

"Bother. There's always something."

"Well, now that you two are acquainted, I had better go." I had forgotten that Stamford was still there, actually. "The missus will be expecting me."

"Ah, thank you for the introduction." Sherlock Holmes looked down his long nose at stout Stamford, who almost made as if to offer a hug. He must have thought better of it, because he offered a hand instead. This was accepted, and before he left, he cuffed me carefully on the right shoulder.

"I'm sure I'll be seeing the two of you around during regular hours of operation." Stamford's jovial expression made an impression on me as he finished, "You'll get on famously, I'm sure of it."

He was right, of course, though at the time I had a few doubts.

 

221 B Baker Street

 

It was dark by the time we arrived at 221, and Sherlock confirmed that Mrs. Hudson would probably be asleep. It was a narrow building, as all of the buildings on Baker Street were, and tall. The first stairs up to the landing were hard on my hip, and I watched with increasing frustration as Holmes took them two or three at a time. He waited at the top for me, producing a set of old looking keys when I finally made it. It was dark inside, and the hall was narrow. We took the door to the left and went up another flight of stairs that seemed interminable, like it would never end.

By the time I reached the top of the stairs, Holmes was standing in the middle of a large cluttered but narrow room, complete with several small bags of luggage that looked suspiciously familiar sitting near the door.

"Well, it will be fine once we clear out some of this junk…."

"I took the liberty of moving in."

We had spoken at nearly the same time, and Sherlock's face fell a little. "I suppose I can stand to tidy up a bit." He said.

I smiled, "It's fine. We can do it together."

He brightened, "Splendid." He disappeared into a room off the living room, "Tea?"

"Yes please, parched." I followed him, and got a bit of a shock. If the other room had been bad, this one was really awful. No food anywhere, but chemical messes and miscellaneous books took over every surface. "Actually, how about we do some cleaning first?"

"Oh." Sherlock regarded the teapot's contents and nodded, "Yes, that's fair."

We spent that first night cleaning. Eventually around three in the morning, we collapsed into a chair and a sofa respectively and dozed. When I woke in the morning it was to an unexpected weight across my lap. I'm not entirely sure how Sherlock Holmes managed to fall asleep across my lap without waking me up, but there he was, my junk pressed somewhat uncomfortably up into his solar plexus. His ass hung rather enticingly over the chair's overstuffed arm, and my hand was gleefully petting down his spine as I woke. I wasn't quite awake enough to stop immediately, especially when he made a happy little humming noise into my armpit.

"Sherlock?" I asked, "Should I stop?"

"Hmm…?"

I paused in my downstroke to wait for permission.

"Holmes?" I prompted, "Do you want me to keep petting you, or should I stop?"

His voice rumbled out from under my arm, "Why would you do that?"

"You were asleep. You can't consent if you're sleeping. Do you want me to stop?"

"No." Sherlock wiggled deeper onto my lap, then gasped, "Oh."

"Yes. Oh." Well aware of what he'd suddenly become aware of, I patiently asked again, "Do you want me to keep going?"

"Oh." He sighed, shuffled around a bit and looked up at my face from under his curled fringe, "Yes?"

"Yes is fine, Sherlock." I smiled, "But no is fine too. It's all fine, remember?"

"Yes. Please." Sherlock squirmed until my hand slid down to his arse, and he pushed a little into it. "Don't stop."

I smiled, and squeezed gently, "Okay."

My nails were blunt, but I raked them from Sherlock's ass all the way up into his hair, and he made a helpless noise as I did. I closed my fingers in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, and tugged gently. Sherlock whimpered. "Yes?" I asked quietly.

"Mmhm."

"Okay." I smirked, and tugged again.

"Yes!" Sherlock hissed, "Again!"

Delighted, I did. Then I remembered my rules. "Sherlock?"

"Uh?"

I tugged his head up a little so I could look him in the eye, "Do you know what a safe word is?"

"What?"

"Okay. It's fine." I smiled, "If you want me to stop you just say 'red,' you want me to slow down or give you a minute you say 'yellow,' you're good to go and you like where things age going you say 'green.' Clear?"

"Seriously?" He scoffed.

"Yes, seriously." My mouth thinned to a flat line, "You don't like it, we stop right now."

He frowned, "No. Fine. Red is stop, yellow is slow, green is go. Got it."

"Will you actually follow it?" I asked, expecting some pushback or a lie. I got neither.

"I don't like it, I think it's lame." He kept frowning, "But I like you, and I like this, so I'll try."

"Good enough for now." He smiled when I said it, and I was suddenly aware that I was in this thing a good deal deeper than I'd expected for having just met this man yesterday. "I will ask for colours if I'm not sure, but otherwise I expect you to speak up if you run into something you don't like, okay?"

"Not a child." He whined, grinding down on the arm of the chair with an unexpected wiggle at the end. My suspicion was confirmed, he was getting off on this. At least his ardour hadn't been put off by the serious conversation.

"No, but you are a bit of a brat, aren't you?" I mused. Yes, we were going to get along very well, I thought. I trailed my hands down his back again, firmly this time, being sure to activate the muscles on either side of his spine.

"Are you going to just pet me all day?" He squirmed again, tossing his head a bit.

"I was waiting for you to ask." I squinted at him, lifting my hand reluctantly away from his posterior. "Is there something you would like me to do, maybe?"

"Touch me! Stop teasing!"

"Now which is it? Stop teasing, or touch you?"

"Oh, come on!"

"Alright, alright." I took pity on him and tugged gently at the hair at the nape of his neck, "Sit up a bit so I can get your shirt."

He complied eagerly, and I enjoyed the sight of his shirt rucked up and wrinkled from the awkward sleeping position. I slowly unbuttoned the shirt, and dragged my hands across his chest, noting but not commenting on the stark scars under his pecs.

"I'm" He started, nervously.

I put a finger to his lips, "It's all fine, remember?" I slowly brought myself closer to him, and kissed him, close mouthed. He hid his face in my shoulder, and I felt a little dampness.

"Do you want to continue later?" I asked, gently.

He shook his head where it lay, "No. This is perfect."

I ran my hands over his shoulders, pushing the shirt off, "Is this okay?"

"Yes." He nodded, "I mean, 'green'." I laughed a little.

"Yes, good boy." I said into his ear and he shivered. "Like that?"

"Yes."

"Good." I licked a strip up his ear from the lobe to the top, and dragged my teeth along as I went. He hissed. "Perfect is right."

"You are so good, Sherlock."

I pulled him back into my lap, and he came bonelessly, collapsing with a knee to either side of my hips. Surmising that he enjoyed a little tooth, I licked up his throat and nibbled a little as I went. He groaned, and sought out my mouth. This time the kiss was deep and dirty. He kissed like he spoke, little bits at first, then a deluge of information. I loved every second.

His hands found the bottom of my sweater vest, and dug roughly into my stomach. I huffed a laugh, "Here, I'll help."

I peeled the vest off, and immediately his deft fingers were at my collar, pulling the buttons loose as he went. "Easy, easy. I'm not going anywhere."

He stopped and looked me in the eye. He said crossly, "Good," and resumed his tugging. Eventually after some struggle, we were laughing and joyful, but the shirt was off, and his skin touched mine for the first time and we both sighed.

"Yes." I said, "Yes, this." I tugged him closer by the waistband of his formal slacks, and looked deep into grey eyes, "Is it okay?" I tugged again, more meaningfully this time. He looked confused for a second, then figured it out.

"Next time?" He pleaded. I smiled.

"Of course. What would you like?"

He squinted at my pants like they had offended him, "You?"

I blinked a few times, okay, that was unexpected. "Alright. Me what?"

"Can we get you off?"

"Oh, very much yes. What did you have in mind?"

"Can I blow you?"

"Have you done that before?"

"Not recently, and never because I just wanted to." He frowned, "But I want to now, with you. Is that okay?"

"It's all fine." I said, "Do you want me to…" I gestured vaguely to my slacks.

"No. I'll do it." Sherlock said, decisively. He undid my top button, then the second, and struggled for a second with the flap, "I see you're already in costume."

"Stamford was pretty clear about my having to be in proper dress when I arrived."

Sherlock got a sour face, and stopped with his hand halfway into my pants, fingers mere millimetres from my cock, "Never talk about him in bed with me, please."

I laughed a little, "We aren't in bed."

"You knew what I meant."

"Fair enough." I took a deep breath as his hand closed around me. "Yes."

His hands were large and calloused, I could feel every bit of them on me, and as he tentatively jacked a few strokes I was aware that it had been perhaps too long since I'd been taken in hand. I was unlikely to last terribly long. Not that this was a bad thing, given the circumstances, but just as Sherlock bent his head there came a firm nock on the door.

And that was the end of that good mood, I thought ruefully. Sherlock tilted his head at me and made as if to continue.

"Red." I said firmly. He pouted, stood up in a huff, grabbed his shirt and stormed into a room I hadn't seen the night before, slamming the door behind him. I rolled my eyes, straightened my trousers and pulled the sweater vest over my head just as there came another nock,

"Is everything alright in there Sherlock? I heard you come in last night…" I kindly looking lady stood in the door, took one look at me, nodded, and turned right back around, "I'll just come back later, then, shall I? Mrs. Hudson, by the way. Nice to meet you.  Not your housekeeper, so please try and keep it tidier."

"Nice to meet you." I sighed as the door closed behind her. Well, so much for that encounter. And it had been going so well.

 

The Consulting Detective

 

For three days I didn't see Sherlock at all. I don't know if he was holed up in his room sulking or if he had snuck out each morning before I was awake, but either way I was busy enough that I didn't spare too much concern for the situation. During the day I went to the hospital and treated minor ailments and injuries, and in the evenings I read the newspaper in a comfortable chair in the living room. I quickly learned to wash any dishes or kitchen implements before using them, which wasn't really such a hardship in the end.

The fourth day was Saturday, and as such I could have slept in. Instead I was up at the crack of dawn as usual, and was sitting in my usual chair with the paper, a mug of tea and some breakfast when the door bell rang. Sherlock streaked out of what I assumed was his room and tromped loudly down the stairs. I could hear the conversation as it wafted up the echoey stairs.

"You found another one!" Sherlock didn't even bother to greet his guest.

"How did you- never mind. Will you come?" The voice was much harder to make out than Sherlock's,

"Anything different this time?"

"She left a note."

"Splendid!" Sherlock galloped up the stairs, "Just let me get my hat- go ahead. I'll meet you there."

Sherlock's long arm reached around the door for his hat when his gaze fell on my chair.

"John, you're a doctor, aren't you?"

"Yes." I replied hesitantly.

"Military man, too. Seen a lot of action in your time. Not squeamish, are you?"

"No."

"Care to come with me to a crime scene? Might be dangerous..." His tone was wheedling, and I could tell I was being manipulated, but I didn't care.

"Oh, Heavens yes." I, more fool I, bounded down the stairs after him, his brilliant grin intoxicating and burned forever into my mind's eye. I didn't know where I stood with him, but things couldn't be too bad if he was dragging me along with him on whatever this adventure was going to be.

We took a hansom to the scene, which turned out to be a townhouse at the other end of the village. Sherlock didn't say a word the whole way, and out of deference to the weird truce we had going on, neither did I. We beat Sherlock's friend by a scant few moments, and it's a good thing, too. There were constables at the front door, and they were not friendly.

"No way. I'm not letting you in without direct orders."

"Someone dies and, sure enough, here you are, turning up like a bad penny."

"Anderson, Donovan. A pleasure, as always." Sherlock oozed, "Oh, look, here's your master, ready to call his dogs to heel."

"What's going on here?" The voice from before belonged to a well dressed individual, taller then I and shorter than Sherlock with odd curled sideburns and grey temples. "Holmes. You brought a friend?"

"This is Doctor John Watson, to help me with the investigation."

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, with Scotland Yard, at your service." There was no hesitation and no stumbling over the rehearsed words, and I was deeply impressed that no notes of humor came through. "Someone has actually died, though, so we should all get to it before this becomes a publicity issue."

"Aren't there actual police to deal with this?" I whispered to Sherlock as we followed Lestrade passed the glaring Donovan and Anderson.

"Why yes, my dear Watson. These people are actual police." Sherlock smirked, "And in the event that you were wondering, yes, I am actually a consulting detective. The Government only hires the real deal, you see, those two chuckleheads not withstanding."

"The same way I am a real doctor. I guess everyone here is really what they seem, then?"

"For the most part, yes. Didn't you read the boilerplate?"

"I read the salient bits. Or at least, the bits that I thought were salient. So there really has been a murder here."

"Three, actually, so far." Sherlock looked strangely pleased, "We have our very own serial killer, right here is London Village."

"Holmes!" Lestrade chided from ahead, "She's up the stairs. You could show some respect for the dead, you know."

A blustery exhale came from my companion, but we followed Lestrade up the cramped stairwell and out into a wide and strangely bare room. I will spare you the gruesome details of the poor girl's body, but some details must be shared for you to understand the situation. She was trussed up in fine red cords and not much else, though the accoutrements of a scandalously good time lay around her on the bed. The only other furniture in the room was a hard-backed wooden chair and a writing table, on which there was a piece of paper.

 

Adler

 

The paper was a conundrum that Donovan and Lestrade debated in hushed voices at one end of the room while Sherlock grilled me on the details of the poor girl's condition. Despite the condition of her skin, she seemed to have died of some sort of poison and not anything which might have occurred during the active and creative session of sexual congress prior to her death.

By the time I had assured Sherlock of this conclusion, Anderson had finally decided that the word "Adler" written on the paper clearly meant the girl had been poisoned by an adder.

"It's a type of snake, you know, Boss."

"You lower the intelligence level of the entire room each time you open your mouth, Anderson. Kindly cease." Sherlock scoffed, "We've got everything we can from the scene, but there's a lead to follow. We'll get back to you when we have more."

Lestrade had given Donovan a long-suffering look at the snake comment, but then failed to recover quickly enough to catch Sherlock as he breezed past and out the door. I shrugged apologetically as I followed him, "It was nice meeting you, Detective Inspector."

We didn't catch a hansom this time, but instead I followed Sherlock on a mad dash through the streets of London, during which I was surprised to note he was exceptionally fit for someone who seemed to spend most of his time lounging around. If I myself hadn't been in decent trim I might well have gotten left behind.

Eventually we reached his destination, and he ran up the stairs to the front door. When I finally made it up behind him Sherlock smiled, "Are you ready to meet an institution?"

"What?"

Sherlock's smile widened, and he nocked loudly on the door. The door opened almost immediately to reveal a very short person, dressed in a stiff Victorian dress in butter yellow pinstripe.

"Ms. Adler is booked up for today. Can I make you an appointment for another day?" They looked down their nose at us, a slight sneer on their face.

"We're here to talk to her about a murder. I think you'll find she has the time." Sherlock replied bluntly.

"One moment please." The door shut in Sherlock's face. After a few moments had passed, the door opened again, "Please come in." Our yellow-dressed friend's face was as pale as the dress and they seemed somewhat subdued.

"Follow me."

We followed them into a little parlour, complete with overstuffed stiff couches and chairs, all in opulent red. "Wait here."

My lips pursed and as soon as our yellow-dressed friend had left, I hissed at Sherlock, "Did you just take us to a serial killer's place of business?" I had no illusions as to what type of institution Ms. Adler was at this point. Clearly she ran some form of sexual services out of this building. What I didn't understand was why someone would have willfully left a crime scene so clearly implicating themselves behind.

"Maybe." Sherlock smiled benignly, "I promised you danger, remember?"

"Yes, but..." I hissed back, but stopped in my tracks as I saw the person who could only be Ms. Adler. She was truly a work of art, all beautiful dark skin for miles and black curly hair, beautifully decked out in pure crisp white lingerie.

"Gentlemen." Her voice was deep and smoky, baritone where I was expecting soprano. "Welcome to my humble establishment. I hear you upset my secretary. I do wish you hadn't done that."

I stood, my hat in my hand, "You have our deepest and most sincere apologies, My Lady. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Doctor John Watson, and this is my colleague Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Enchanted." She glided across the room, her thunderous thighs sliding like silk together as she walked. She offered me a hand, which I dutifully kissed.  It was all oddly formal, but felt familiar and natural with her, "I am Ms. Irene Adler. I hear you would like to discuss a murder."

 

Yes Mistress

 

I may have been a little distracted by Ms. Adler's appearance during the conversation between Ms. Adler and Sherlock, but followed the conversation as best I could. Sherlock was in rare form, having copied my formal greeting himself before smoothly transitioning into a more in depth conversation. Ms. Adler did not join us in sitting, but rather stalked the room much like a large cat might pace its cage.

"And you say she was tied with my trademarked items?" She husked, "What makes you think it was me who attended her?"

"I very much doubt that a woman of your repute would allow any of your employees to take a client anywhere other than the safety of your establishment." Sherlock's tone implied a question to which he felt he already knew the answer, and sure enough, Ms. Adler nodded thoughtfully.

"You are correct. I do not usually take clients off site, either, however, this particular client had some very specific requirements which I am not at liberty to discuss. I will, however, say that you might track down her husband to inform him as to the whereabouts of his wife. I can have Madeline give you the woman's full name and address, as we keep those on file here."

"Thank you." Sherlock gave her a beaming smile, and I felt a little twinge of unwelcome emotion.

"Madeline, please give these men the information they require." Ms. Adler smiled, "You are welcome to a free session, each of you, should you ever wish it. Madeline?"

"Yes Mistress?"

"See that these two take a voucher each before they leave."

"Yes Mistress."

"Now, if you will excuse me, I need to prepare for my next client." She nodded at us in turn, and sailed back out of the room as if she had never been. I felt like everything had changed in just a few short moments. How could someone like her possibly be responsible for a murder?

"This would be a good time to inform the Detective, if only so we don't have to do the usual chore of informing the family." Sherlock gestured that I should follow as we left. "We'll catch a hansom this time. I don't fancy a run. How's your leg?"

"Now that you mention it, I could really use a rest. I overtaxed it a bit getting here, I think."

"Very well. Hansom it is."

By the time a hansom stopped, I was in considerable pain, and Sherlock couldn't stop talking about Ms. Irene. I was getting a little tired of it, actually, and was relieved that he stopped talking when we got into the carriage. It was a short enough drive to the police station, but Sherlock bounded out of the hansom so quickly that he left me to pay for the bill. I was sore and cranky by the time I caught up with him in the station.

"I have informed the Detective Inspector as to the progress of the investigation. We might as well go back home now." He said as I approached.

"Wonderful." I was unimpressed at what felt like a wasted trip, but was happy enough to go back to my comfortable chair. I spent the ride home convincing myself that I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home. I was starting to wonder why Sherlock was always so quiet on hansom rides when he was otherwise very talkative.

 

Red and Green

 

Sherlock did not immediately retreat into his room upon our arrival home, but instead stood by the window with his violin playing what might charitably have been called music for some time. Finally he rounded on me,

"What did you think of her?"

"Ms. Adler, you mean?" I stalled.

"Oh, never mind, I know exactly what you thought." He sneered, "She is beautiful, how could she possibly be the one we are looking for?  How could she be capable of premeditated murder?"

"The thought had crossed my mind. I know it isn't a sensible thought." I shrugged, a little taken aback, "Anyone could be a murderer. For all I know you could be the culprit, I've barely known you a few days."

"You don't believe that, though."  He seemed very sure, though somewhat baffled.

"I don't." I smiled, "My gut tells me that you aren't the sort, in much the same way my gut is telling me that Ms. Adler is going to be trouble, even if she isn't the murderer."

"Why?"

"Because whatever we have going on between us is complicated enough already without someone like her coming into the picture." I shook my head, "She would be worth the trouble, but likely is not interested in either of us outside of her professional capacities."

"Hm." Sherlock's expression changed from fractious to contemplative, "You have given me something to think about."

"Good. Someone like her rarely allows themselves to be emotionally invested, don't get yourself hurt."

"I appreciate your concern." The sarcasm was thick in his voice. "And just to be clear, there is nothing going on between us. You very clearly ended it yourself."

"Oh, Sherlock, no." I allowed regret to tinge my voice, "No. Using the safeword only ends the session for the day, not forever, just for the moment."

"But, I thought you said..."

"No." I stood up and prowled towards him, as best I could with my leg still being awful, "No, I very much want to continue that session. However, I do not like having an incidental audience- it's a hard no for me. Being intimate with you, in private, is very much a yes."

I backed him up against a bookshelf, and caged him in, "Are you interested in that, still?"

There was a swift intake of breath from him, and he nodded.

"I'm going to need you to say it."

His eyes narrowed and his jaw jutted out a bit. He was such a perfect example of a brat in that moment that I almost ruined it by laughing in his face.

I leaned in close and whispered in his ear, being careful not to touch him at all, "I won't touch you until you do."

He hissed his displeasure and through clenched teeth finally bit out, "Green. Yes, whichever. Whatever it will take to get you to stop teasing me!"

I smiled triumphantly, and licked a stripe up his ear. He shuddered and exhaled a quiet, "Yes...."

"What would you like today?" I asked curiously, "Will you allow kisses?"

He turned to look at me skeptically across his generous nose, "Yes?"

"Good. I like kissing." I pulled him down so he was almost sitting on the ledge of the bookshelf and gently licked into his mouth. He whined and pursued me in turn. He was an enthusiastic kisser, though not terribly skilled. I took my time, and he was a quick learner, picking up in skill level astonishingly fast. I got the impression he had perhaps not been kissed too much in the past. I slid a hand behind his head and raked my blunt nails in his scalp, he gasped loudly.

"Yes, that. Do that again," His voice was breathy and much higher pitched than I had expected.

"Okay." I smiled, and did it again. He surged forward and pushed me back to the couch, where we fell in an ungainly muddle onto its overstuffed cushions. "Oof!"

We looked with concern at one another, but then burst into laughter. He looked down at me from his position firmly on top and asked, tentatively, "Green?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Green."

He leaned down and kissed me again, his over-eager teeth met mine in a short clash before we adjusted to the new position. He grazed his hand down my chest and tugged at my shirt, "Off?"

"Yes." I leaned up, and kissed his nose as I pulled the shirt tails out of my trousers. Clearly I was taking too long, because Sherlock started undoing the buttons from the bottom while I worked from the top down. His fingers grazed my skin and I shivered.

"Cold?"

I shook my head as our fingers tangled over the last button, "No. Feels good."

He looked smug, "I've barely touched you."

"What can I say? I have sensitive skin." I shrugged the shirt over my shoulders, but Sherlock leaned down over me before I could get my arms free.

"Splendid." He pressed into me and let his teeth run over my neck. I must have made a sound, because he pulled away, looking concerned, "It's okay?"

"Very green, Sherlock."

"Good." Satisfied, he bit little kisses into my chest from clavicle to iliac crest, dragging hisses out of me as he grazed a nipple with his teeth. Warmth spread through me, and I was suddenly so glad things had turned out this way.

My hands were loosing circulation a little, but the discomfort was outweighed by the sensations Sherlock was eliciting. Not usually one for being captive, I was surprisingly comfortable under his wiry bulk.

He reached for the buttons of my trousers, and asked, "Yes?"

"Yes." I breathed.

 

Yellow Means Caution

NOTE:  we're earning the rating here, so if sexytimes bothers you, try skipping to the next section.

 

He was not practiced with this type of trousers, but really, who is these days? He opened my flies and exhaled heartily. I twitched, and he grinned. What was I getting myself into? Never mind, we all know it's about sex att this point.

He ambitiously tried to take me to the root and came up spluttering. Where I had managed not to laugh before, I failed now.

"Oh, Sherlock, I shouldn't laugh." I wheezed, "It's alright. Perfectly natural. Happens all the time."

His expression was clearly not amused. "Yellow." He growled.

My expression sobered immediately, "Okay. I am sorry."

"No apologizing. I messed up, not you."

"Oh." I frowned, "No, no. You didn't do anything wrong. If feels good that way, yes, but there are other ways to start."

I paused to give him a moment to recover, during which he made a few faces which, out of deference to his personal dignity I shall not describe. "Shall I show you?"

"No." He was decisive.

"Okay. How about I talk you through it?"

"Green, yes." He nodded, "I like your voice."

"Okay. If I say anything that makes you uncomfortable..."

"I know. Colours."

"Good. Now, everyone does this a little bit differently."

"I am not a child. You do not need to talk down to me."

"Sorry. I'm a little nervous, actually. I don't usually narrate this part."

His stare was flat and unimpressed, as if he wasn't entirely sure if I was making fun of him or not.

"Okay, okay." I laughed, "Kiss me?"

"I don't see what that has to do with"

I cut him off effectively by shrugging out of my shirt and finally grabbing his lapels to pull him in for said kiss. He groaned, and quickly took over the kiss. I let him. This was exactly what he needed.

"What you did before, the licking and biting? That was good. Do it again." I whispered into his ear. He shivered and complied, watching me with his big eyes as he worked his way down my chest and to my belly. He smirked as he grazed the other nipple this time and I hissed as quietly as I could. "Let's not have any interruptions this time, yeah?"

He nodded, and kept at it. "How long do I do this for?" He asked, quietly.

I grinned, "Until I tell you to move on. Now is a good time. Take me in hand, Sherlock."

He looked puzzled, and I mimed a jerking off motion. His expression went flat again. I smirked and shrugged, "You can call a colour any time."

He grabbed hold of me roughly in one large hand and I felt like I could see stars behind my eyelids for a moment. "Yess. That's good, Sherlock."

He preened under the praise and his usually quite sallow cheeks coloured a little. Clearly the praise thing was something I would need to incorporate a little more often.

"Imagine you are doing this for yourself, and start there."

He frowned, "Um..."

"Is something wrong?" I goaded.

"No." He said firmly. "But the last time I imagined doing this and did what I thought you laughed at me."

"Oh, I see." I nodded, "Okay, we're going to be really literal here, then. A few rules before we start; 1 no teeth, 2 no bending at awkward angles, and 3 no trying to choke yourself- there are more pleasant ways to do that."

"There are pleasant ways to choke oneself?" His voice sounded skeptical.

"I don't judge. Some people like it." I shrugged, "It can be a little dangerous..."

"Oh. You like it." He nodded, "Okay. At some point we'll try it."

"Oh, no, I didn't mean..."

"Not consciously, perhaps." He shrugged and echoed my words back at me, squeezing me, where I had clearly grown in the time we'd been talking, "I don't judge. But why don't we keep going before Mrs. Hudson barges in again."

"Yes. Now, adjust your grip like this." I said, taking his hand and moving it how I wanted. The sensation of both our hands on me was exquisite, and I may have lingered a little longer than strictly necessary. "Up and down like this, and if you want to twist your wrist at the end... Yes. Like that."

"Now run your palm over the head, yes, good."

I shuddered. He was doing well for this being the first time, and his grip was firm and strong, unlike many weak-wristed fellows.

"Like this?" He asked, very seriously. "This can't be all of it."

"No. Now lick just the glans at the top."

He looked up at me as he did, as if questioning, but then smirked as my eyes slid closed. "Good. Again. You can be firmer. No teeth."

"I remember." He growled, licking a firm swirl around me. Precocious. I firmly scratched into his scalp, being careful not to accidentally pull any hairs, he tilted his head back and hissed through his teeth.

"Like that, do you?"

"What do you deduce?"

"You like it." I smiled, tugging gently at thick clumps of his hair. He looked up at me through long lashes.

"Now what?"

"You know how to stroke and you know how to lick. All you have to do is put them together in a way that feels natural to you."

His expression turned sour, "That's it?"

"That's it." I shrugged, "There isn't really much to it, it's repetitive and will make your jaw and wrist sore. We can do something else if you don't want..."

"I want." He set his jaw firmly, and there was a crease between his brows. He set to work, rather faster than I expected, so I may have made a little noise. It only encouraged him, which encouraged me to make more noise, too. He delicately closed his lips around the head and hummed around me.  A jolt of pleasure went through me.

"Sherlock!"

"Hm?"

"Oh, yes! If you want this to last you're going to want to..." He redoubled his efforts, and I resigned myself to coming like a teen altogether too quickly and possibly all over his too perfect face. "Hnn. If you don't want it all over you...."

He glanced up and shoved me much too deeply into his throat. I remember his eyes being bright, thin bands around mostly pupil as I shuddered through.

 

The Carrot or the Stick

 

Sherlock crawled up into my lap as soon as it was over, and curled his lanky self carefully around me.

"Good?" He asked.

"Yes. Very good." I confirmed. I petted long strokes down his back, but he squirmed violently, so I stopped, "Sherlock?"

"It's okay. I just need to..." He stood suddenly, "I need a shower." He turned on his heel and left.

"Right." I muttered. I was pretty sure I hadn't done anything wrong.... And then I remembered how he'd not wanted to take off his shirt, and how familiar that type of squirming was, and how he'd said 'not this time' when I'd asked about his trousers. I resolved to let him come to me about it, if and when he wanted to, and so I went about the mundane task of making tea.

The next day we heard from Lestrade. They had talked to the husband and he had confessed to murdering his wife after finding out that she had been cheating. All in all, a fairly straightforward situation. Sherlock sulked for days afterwards, claiming there was more to it, despite not being able to prove it.

Finally I dragged him with me to the park for a walk, him muttering the whole while. I had hoped that the fresh air would help bring him out of his funk, but unfortunately it made things worse. He said nasty thing about the people around us, then when we got back he sequestered himself in his room again and I didn't see him for a few more days.

Then there was a nock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson let them in. I heard hushed voices, then it took the stranger some time to make it up the stairs. I waited patiently in my chair, sipping my tea.

The first thing I saw of our guests was a giant black umbrella followed by a pompous-looking individual dressed head-to-toe in oppressive black.

"You are unnecessarily difficult to kidnap, Doctor Watson."

"Excuse me?" I put down my tea. "I am a veteran who walks with a limp. I have a set schedule and very settled routines from which I rarely deviate. How hard can it be?"

"Fair enough, Doctor Watson." A slim individual in black Victorian dress stepped out from behind Umbrella. "You may call me Anthea. My pronouns are she/her. I am Mr. Holmes' secretary."

"I didn't realize Sherlock had a secretary?"

"He doesn't." Umbrella said flatly. "I want to employ your services. I understand you are not being compensated as much as you should be."

"Oh?" I stood, "Why don't you sit down?"

"Yes, thank you." Umbrella sat across from me and Anthea sat next to him. "I understand some hazard pay might be in order, as well I would like you to keep me appraised regarding the state of Sherlock Holmes."

"No." I did not sit down. "I think you should leave."

Anthea raised an eyebrow, "Don't you want to hear the rate?"

"No." I gestured, "You know where the door is."

"Don't you want to know who it is you are refusing?"

"No."

"Very well, then." Umbrella got up, and gestured to Anthea, "He has made his decision."

They clattered down the stairs, the Umbrella and Anthea muttering grumpily to one another as they went.

"Well, that was odd." I muttered once they'd gone.

 

Archenemies

 

They hadn't been gone for more than a moment when Sherlock came up behind me, silent and menacing over my shoulder.

"He was here, I know he was."

"Oh, you know the Umbrella Man?"

"Umbrella man?" Sherlock stopped bristling, "Oh, I bet he loved that!"

"Well, I didn't actually call him that to his face." I admitted, "He offered me money to spy on you. I told him to leave."

"Shame. We could have split it." Sherlock shrugged, "He can afford it."

"No." Finally my curiosity got the better of me, "Who was he?"

"My archenemy."

"You have an archenemy?"

"I have several, but he is the most persistent."

"Does he have a name?"

"Mycroft."

"Just Mycroft?"

"He's my brother, John."

"What?!"

"So it's Mycroft Holmes." Sherlock shrugged, "I have another, older, brother and a younger sister as well, I'm afraid."

"Are they all like you?"

"In a way." Sherlock slumped into the couch, "Mycroft is the second child. Runs the government here, more or less. You won't meet Sherrinford or Eurus, hopefully. Sherrinford is with Mummy, Eurus is in a corrective facility."

"Oh." I sat down hard. This was the first I had heard of anyone being so much as related to Sherlock. "Do you want to talk about them?"

"No." Sherlock got up and took my mug of tea, "Can I have this?" He had drunk the last of it before I had a chance to reply, so I shrugged, somewhat bemused.

There came another nock on the door, and we both frowned at it, before Sherlock went to open it. On the other side was a disgruntled looking Lestrade,

"It's happened again, hasn't it?" Sherlock smiled. "Come, John. The game is afoot!"


	2. Fine Print

Boilerplate

 

"So, why don't you ever talk in the hansom?"

"I once had a case where a hansom driver was a serial killer. I am more cautious these days."

"Fair enough." Well, that answered that. "How long have you been here, actually, then?"

"Since the beginning. It's actually Sherrinford's project originally. He got tired of it and Mycroft took over. He's who I refer to as 'the Government'."

"Surely you don't mean..."

"Oh, I very much do mean." Sherlock looked smug. "You probably got a letter from whatever his secretary is calling herself these days. And let me guess, it was the first you'd ever heard of this place?"

"Actually, yes." I frowned, "How on earth do you always know these things?"

"Would you like me to explain for you?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "It's simple really. It's always the same. You are down on your luck in some way, then out of the blue you receive a letter addressed to you from a place you have never heard of, offering steady and regular employment. All you have to do is give up your normal life, which hasn't been going well, for six months and live onsite. It sounds like a great deal, doesn't it? But of course it is a trap."

"What?"

"Once you're here there is no way out. You can't leave."

"What do you mean you can't leave? Of course we can leave."

"Have you tried? There's no exit for us. And even if there were, legally we belong to the Government now. We can't work anywhere else ever again." Sherlock shrugs, like this is a totally normal conversation, "It was in the boilerplate. You really should have read the whole thing."

"That makes no sense. First of all, they can't legally do that- it won't stand up in court. And what about all the visitors who come and go every day?" I must have made a very interesting face, because Sherlock laughed humorlessly. "We can leave the same way they do."

"Wrong." Sherlock shook his head ruefully, "What it must be like to have a brain as small as yours.... Those 'visitors' are plants. They work for Mycroft. They're actually social scientists here to study the whatever it is Mycroft is looking to learn."

White Lace

 

"If you know all this, then how are you here?"

 

"I volunteered.  Of course, I thought they'd let me leave eventually."

 

"Who even are you?"  I clenched my jaw, "How could you allow this kind of thing to happen?"

 

"I am not the good guy here, Dr. Watson."  He backed me up into a bookshelf, glaring down at me, "Whatever made you think I was?"

 

Not sure how to answer, but sure that I didn't like where this was going, I swiftly extricated myself from the bookshelf and the apartment altogether. 

 

I wasn't sure where I was going, exactly, but after some time I found myself at a familiar townhouse with pure white curtains and a door red as a fire truck.  Not sure what I was expecting, I nocked on the door.

 

Madeline was wearing powder blue today, I noted.  She glanced around furtively, "Alone today, Sir?"

 

"Very much so." 

 

"Very well.  Are you here for an appointment?  We usually prefer if you book in advance."

 

"Let him in, Madeline."  Ms. Adler's voice was smooth and deep.  "I've been expecting him."

 

What the ever loving fuck?  I thought.  Was everyone here psychic or something?

 

"Don't worry, Doctor Watson.  Mr. Holmes informed me that you might be by soon."

 

I followed Madeline in, and looked up the stairs to see that Ms. Adler had chosen to wear pure white once again.  This time it was mostly lace and somehow more revealing than before, despite covering more of her ample real estate.  She was, as before, resplendent.

Call Me Irene, Dear

 

"Follow me, Doctor."  She turned, and said over her shoulder to Madeline, "See that we aren't disturbed."

 

I followed her up the stairs and into a room decadently upholstered and decorated mainly in red and black. 

 

"What are you looking for today, then Doctor?"  She closed the door behind us, and gestured to a chaise lounge.  I sat as directed.

 

I raised an eyebrow, "Sex."

 

She laughed, "Of course you are, Dear.  Aren't we all?  But what kind of sex did you want?"

 

I laughed, chagrined, "Fair enough.  That's how I usually start scenes, myself- asking what my partner wants.  I guess I am looking for a distraction today.  I need to get out of my own head for a bit."

 

"Very well.   Any hard nos?"

 

"I don't prefer to be interrupted.  I prefer kinks to be pre-negotiated.  No pegging today as I haven't had a chance to clean up."  I shrugged apologetically, "I imagine you're good at it, but I wasn't actually intending to come here when I left the apartment.  How about you, Ms. Adler?"

 

"I do what I am paid to do, Doctor."  She smiled, "Call me Irene, Dear.  But of course, I do have some preferences.  I prefer not to use verbal humiliation, and I prefer advance notice for anything involving urine or feces."

 

"Oh, it's been a little while for me, so I'd forgotten.  All three of those are hard nos for me."

 

"I think we'll get along just fine."  She prowled closer, "Is there anything else particular you would not like today?"

 

I winced, slightly, thinking of Sherlock.  "No blow job."

 

"Very well.  And anything you do want?"

 

"Why don't we just see where things go, Irene?"

 

"Safeword?"

 

"Red, yellow, green okay with you?"

 

"Yes.  Very standard, of course."  Her smile turned wicked, "But at least I can't mistake it for anything else."

Soft, Like Bulletproof Glass

 

She leaned down and kissed me, soft and skilled where Sherlock had been determined and pushy.  Irene's hand went to the back of my head and gently held me there when I would have deepened the kiss.  She shook her head and smiled, pushing me backwards into the overstuffed chaise as she stepped forward into my lap.

 

"Can I touch?"  I asked.

 

"Not yet."  A delicately manicured hand held me at arm's length, "I can see you're most accustomed to taking charge yourself, but today allow me to do the work for you."

 

I took a deep breath, "Yes Ma'am."   Then I paused, reconsidered, and asked, "Is Ma'am okay?  What are your pronouns?"

 

"She/her. Ma'am is fine.  Now relax."  She shoved me, hard, into the cushions, and I groaned. "You are overthinking."

 

"Yes Ma'am."  I smiled, looking up at her dark eyes.  This was going to be fun.   Difficult, since she was not as strong as me, but willing submission is a heady drug.

 

Her eyes narrowed, and she stood up gracefully.  "Come with me, John."

 

It didn't matter where.  I went.

 

She stood before me like a queen.  "Take off your shirt, John."

 

Slowly, I did.  She smiled.  "Yes, good."

 

I shrugged out of the shirt and let it fall to the floor.  Her eyes sharpened, and I knew what she was seeing.  The shoulder wound was bad, I knew.  And this was the first time anyone other than a doctor or Sherlock had seen it.  I clenched my jaw.

 

"Come here."  She beckoned, with her forefinger.  "Let me see."

 

I took a deep breath and complied. 

 

"If I touch it, will it cause you pain?"  She took the last step toward me, looking up the half a head or so to my eyes.

 

"No."  My nose flared a little,  "I don't have much sensation there, actually."

 

"Good."  She ran her hands over both shoulders from my neck down to my biceps, then closed her nails into fists, the sensation making me shiver.  The part that didn't have sensation felt odd, of course, as she trailed over it, but the rest felt just fine.  She smiled.  "Yes, very good.  The rest of you is sensitive enough.  It'll do."

 

She nodded, and turned away.  I almost took a step forward to follow, but she shouted, "No!  You stay where I tell you."

 

I stopped, mid stride, and settled back into parade rest.

 

Irene took one more step away, and turned.  "Good." 

Soldier

 

I waited.  She smiled.  "I see praise doesn't really do it for you.  Shame."

 

"I'm used to the army, Ma'am.  We get inured to words pretty quickly."

 

Her eyebrows raised, "Ah, a soldier, then.  I guess we'll just have to try something more direct.  Loose the pants."

 

I smirked, but complied, cheekily loosing my whole kit as I went.  She laughed, delighted.  "Yes. Fair.  I didn't specify that you shouldn't loose the stockings or the shoes.  Come here, then, and sit down.  At least you're only slightly taller than me."

 

I did.

 

She looked down at me and stepped out of her white chunky heels, forward and extended a hand to shove me down to the bed. I let out a little air as I went, laughing a little at the absurdity of being pushed around so easily.  She raised an eyebrow as if to ask if I was going to play along.  I spread my arms out to my sides as if to say 'I'm here, aren't I?'

 

She glared a little, "Next time I'm going to introduce you to a friend of mine, I think."

 

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow, "Oh?"

 

"I very much doubt you object to someone who can actually throw you around.  How do you feel about threesomes?"

 

"In favour, generally."  I replied, somewhat mollified, "But warn me first, okay?"

 

"Of course, Soldier."  Irene looked smug again, "You'll like him, I expect." 

 

All right, then.  I thought.  I guess we'll see.

 

"You're thinking too much, again."  She scolded, putting a nail between my eyes and pushing gently.  "Let's see what we can do about that, shall we?  Marks okay?"  When I nodded, she dragged her fingernails down my face, leaving what were probably livid lines behind.  Not what I'd expected, I admit, but certain parts of me were certainly on board, and Irene laughed not unkindly when my hips twitched up a little involuntarily.

 

She trailed her hands down my chest, leaving trails of pain as she went.  It was just what I needed, and I let my head loll back.  "Yes..."  I hissed.

 

"That's right, Soldier." 

 

She slid off the white lacy duster thing she was wearing and left it where it pooled on my feet behind her.

 

"Can I touch now?"

 

"Yes."  She said, "Take off my bustier."

 

I was expecting to fumble a little with the clasp, but it was in the front and quite simple, comparatively speaking, to some bras I had encountered previously.  I even managed with only one hand, so I watched raptly as her ample chest spilled towards me, her nipples already large and erect.  I fervently hoped it wasn't the chill of the room, but rather anticipation that made them that way.  I cupped them gently at the sides, pleased that they overflowed in all directions. 

 

"You can be a little firmer, if you like, but no squeezing."

 

I nodded, and ran my hands greedily over her, pleased to take in what I had expected- beautiful soft skin and little shuddering gasps from her as I did so.  I leaned up to put my face between her breasts and inhaled the lovely scent of her.  I could feel her dampness where it gathered below my belly.  The underwear she had on was thin enough I could easily see where it had spread, too.  I smiled.

 

She frowned.  "You're thinking again, Doctor."   She leaned forward and kissed me, clearly as a distraction.  It worked, because the next thing I knew her hand was on me, and she had rolled a condom on.

 

"Seriously?"  I blinked up, bemused.  "How many hands do you have?"

 

"Only the usual two today."  She replied, pulled her underwear to one side and lowered herself onto me.  "Don't move."

 

I didn't.

 

Anytime

 

People say it's all about the heat of it, but I say it's more about the even pressure and the slip and slide and friction of it.  There's no substitute, really, for someone who knows how to use what they have.  If I had been expecting her to move slowly, I was wrong.

 

"Now, John."  She huffed, "Move me!"

 

So I did.  It didn't last long, in the end.  Mere moments and it was over.  Glorious moments, a rise and then a fall, like they say in the songs.  A clenching all over, and then the wonderful total body relaxation. 

 

Of course, I knew she hadn't quite joined me, but I'd been expecting that.  A professional like her- not gonna be done easy.  I withdrew, she clamoured off, and I put the condom in a nearby trash bin. 

 

"Still good?"  I asked, hoping she'd let me get her off, too.

 

She smiled, "Yes, Soldier.  Get over here.  How good are you with your hands?"

 

"Reasonable.  Better with my tongue, or so I'm told."

 

"Very well.  Lick me till I cum."

 

I nodded enthusiastically, then paused, "Was it latex?"

 

"No, hun.  Unflavoured, sadly, but there's flavoured lube on the nightstand, if you want it."

 

I shook my head, "Not necessary."

 

I crawled back over to her, and gently pulled her panties down her legs and off.  I was pleased to see that while she was well groomed, she was not entirely hairless.  I myself have always thought that smacks a little of underage play and it makes me mildly uncomfortable.

 

I started by kissing one thigh and then the other, working my way up to her iliac crest on one side and down under the rolls of her belly and across to the other leg.  She took a deep breath, shuddering,

 

"I'm a sure thing, Dear.  Get a move on."

 

I grinned, but didn't go any faster.  Now it was my turn.  I started with my fingers, dragging them gently from the top down on either side of the clitoral hood, scratching gently through the fluid there.

 

"Yesss."  She threw back her head, "More."

 

"Demanding," I teased, but slipped a finger inside to see what I was working with- plenty of room, as expected.

 

One finger at a time I slowly worked my way up to three.  I contemplated adding more, but decided against it- not this time.  I leaned down and licked a careful stripe in the same path my fingers had taken.  She moaned loudly, clearly unconcerned about what Madeline would hear.  I licked up again to just under her clit and let myself fall into the rhythm of it.  The position was awkward, verging on impossible, but she was clearly enjoying it, so I bore with it until she was shuddering regularly and clenching around me.  As she was cumming I pressed my tongue to her firmly and let her do what she needed.

 

I drew away as she finished and looked around for something to wipe off on.  Finding nothing, I licked my hands clean.  She stared up at me, grinning, "You enjoy that almost as much as the sex, don't you?"

 

"It is sex, Irene."  I shrugged, "Just because my dick isn't in you doesn't make it something else."

 

"Hm."  She tilted her head a little as she regarded me with an odd look on her face, "I rather like you, John Watson.  You are welcome to visit anytime, you'll have a half-off deal every time."

 

"Is that what you say to all the boys?"

 

"No."  She shrugged, "Just a few."

 

The Woman

 

I slammed into 221B Baker street, and found Sherlock more or less where I'd left him.

 

He took one look at me, eyes wide and his expression turned stormy.  "You've been to see the Woman!"

 

"I've also been to see Lestrade."

 

"Who?"  He looked puzzled.

 

"Greg Lestrade? Detective Inspector?  Ring any bells?"

 

"Oh, him."  Sherlock shrugged, "You wanted to know about the boilerplate.  You could have asked me.  I have a copy, in the Encyclopedia Britannica, volume three."

 

I deflated, "Of course you do."

 

He stood up from the couch, "Why don't you sit down?"

 

I did, in my favourite chair, "Alright.  Let's start from the beginning."

 

He paced back and forth, "I thought we had something.  I guess I thought we were exclusive."

 

I shook my head, "We never discussed it.  We should have.  I'm sorry."

 

"Was it a one time thing?"  He asked, facing away, "With me, I mean."

 

"That depends, really."  I sighed, "I wanted to keep going, but...  Knowing that you're in on this bizarre conspiracy makes me a little uncomfortable about putting my penis anywhere near you."

 

He laughed flatly, "That's fair, I suppose.  Except I'm really not in on it.  I came here voluntarily as a kind of AA program.  I didn't realize the extent of it, of course, until it was too late, and then it was never really worth it to try and leave- I have all the things I really need here."

 

"Okay, let's say I believe you.  What now?"

 

"Do you intend to see the woman again?"

 

"What does she have to do with whether or not we can leave this place at the end of six months?"

 

"It matters to me."

 

"Maybe?"  I shook my head, "I had a good time, but it wasn't really about much more than sex, so I guess it really depends."

 

"On what?"

 

"If we can all get out of here.  If you're up to help me.  If you really are interested in more, and if you want to be exclusive."

 

"I'll help.  I haven't had a reason before."  Sherlock looked a little apologetic, which I thought was strange.  "I'd rather you didn't have sex that doesn't mean anything.  If that means exclusive, then..."

 

"Not necessarily, but in many cases."  I thought for a moment, "Why don't I talk to Irene next time we see her.  For now, why don't we see about making an attempt to get out- just you and I.  We'll see how far that gets us, and take it from there."

 

Quit to Get Ahead

 

So that's how I found myself in an exclusive relationship with Sherlock Holmes not hours after having sex with the most notorious sex worker in London Village. Here we are, I guess. We slept together that night, though we didn't have sex. We slept next to each other and it was the single most intimate thing I'd done since I'd been discharged. We breathed one another's air, and despite the little discomforts of my arm here his leg there it was wonderful.

I woke up completely immobilized by Sherlock's limbs. Fanfics always say that one partner is like an octopus, but in the case of Sherlock Holmes- he was definitely the octopus type. I grunted, waking him up. If anything, his grip tightened, like I was an oversized teddy bear.

"Sherlock! Let go. I have to pee."

He grumbled, but untwisted himself from around me and let me go. I took deep breaths, and navigated to the washroom mostly by feel. I did what I had to do while there, washed up, and went back to bed only to find that in my absence Sherlock had spread out to take up the entirety of available space. "Budge over if you want cuddles."

He cracked an eye and looked at me suspiciously, "Aren't you going for a walk?"

"Not yet."

"Okay." He slid over to one side of the bed, still somehow managing to take up the vast majority of the bed. I laughed, and flopped carefully down in the available area.

"So, what's the first step?"

"Information gathering. We're going to visit every corner of London Village and learn everything there is to know." Sherlock propped himself up on his wrists, "For example, I already know that while this apartment isn't bugged, the hospital, the morgue, and Lestrade's office all are."

"Well, I guess I know what I'm doing in my time off."

"You could quit at the hospital. It probably isn't in your proper contract."

"You're right. But," I shook my head, "Wouldn't it be better if we didn't make ourselves too obvious about this?"

"Mycroft will already be expecting it, but if you'd rather do this the sneaky way, we can."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Alright. I'll quit Monday."


	3. About Sex

About Sex

 

It was early morning, and Sherlock didn't seem immediately interested in getting started.  He lounged, he sighed, and finally he flopped over onto me.

 

"Is there something I can do for you?"  I asked, archly.

 

He sighed, as if I should already know the answer.  I can recognize when a brat needs something they can't articulate, of course, so I was really just checking to see how self aware he was.

 

"I am bored."  He frowned, "Yes, I want something.  John, fix it."

 

I had expected nothing less, though I had hoped he might have a clearer idea by this point, being as intelligent as he was.    BDSM and sex are not synonymous, and having a clear idea of whether or not he wanted both at the moment might have helped me plan a little.  I prefer to have things planned out, if possible, especially given my most recent encounter with Irene.  Not that anything went wrong, or anything.  But communication is important, as evidenced by the little misunderstanding with Sherlock, which could easily have ruined everything between us forever if either of us had been more inclined to take things the wrong way.  And I was winding myself up unnecessarily.  There was a simple solution to all this.

 

"Do you want me to order you around, or do you want to have sex?"  I asked, I hastened to add,  "Neither or both are also valid options."

 

"They can be done separately, then.  Yes.  I like that.  I do want to be able to do that without having to do as I'm told."

 

Curious, I said, "Sex."

 

He flinched. 

 

"Right.  We're going to work on that." 

 

"Work on what?"

 

"You really need to be able to say the word if you're going to be doing the deed, as it were."

 

"Why?"  Sherlock looked genuinely puzzled, "I can't say 'to eat' in Uzbek, but I still eat food."

 

I took a moment to process this.  "That's fair.  But we're going to need to talk about the things we do, and if you have a hard time using the word 'sex' we're going to run into some miscommunications."

 

"I suppose."  He did not look pleased, and his face was flushed, "Sex.  Can we?"

 

"Yes."  I smiled, "Yes we can."


End file.
